


The Day After Tomorrow

by eggstasy



Series: Post Season 13 - Recuperation [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M, post season 13 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hopefully someone will tell Bitters what a badass he was in the end, what a complete maverick, how fucking cool.  Donut shouldn’t do it.  Donut would tell the truth, about all the crying Grif and Simmons did and that would be embarrassing.</p><p>---</p><p>She can punch things. She can negotiate (sometimes violently). She can’t do this. She can’t comfort a gigantic manchild because his best friend broke himself into tiny shards to save their lives. She can’t think about what that means; she can’t contemplate what her partner had been thinking when he made the decision. She can’t replay that message over and over in her head, obsess over it and wonder if there was anything she could have done to stop it from happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grif

Grif wakes up and immediately goes back to sleep.

This would usually be an ideal way for him to spend his mornings (or afternoons, or evenings if he’s lucky) but this time he’d actually wanted to be awake.  For those thirty seconds of bleary consciousness he’d actually _wanted_ to wake up completely, be aware, get some fucking answers because the last thing he remembered before waking up was getting shot a whole bunch of times.

Carolina is standing next to his bed and she’s the last person he’d expected to see upon waking up after getting shot a whole bunch so he tries to ask, “Why the hell are you here and where’s Simmons,” but what comes out is some spit and, “Muhfuh hunnuh Simmons,” and then his eyes are closing again and all he hears are these droning tones, like a barbershop quartet of flies circling the inside of his head.

 

* * *

 

Grif wakes up again and does better at staying awake this time, though the talking still isn’t working out well.  Washington has replaced Carolina which is only a mild improvement.  At least he’s more familiar with the guy and it’s not _as_ awful for him to be there when Grif can’t talk and apparently can’t swallow his own saliva.

Hospital. Maybe.  It’s a clean room and not a shack in some godforsaken hole in the ground, so it’s probably a city and not some New Republic camp- why the fuck does he care where he is?  He’s in a bed and he can barely move and instead of Simmons or Sarge or even fucking _Donut,_ Agent Washington is keeping vigil at his bedside.

“Relax,” Wash says when he sees Grif starting to scowl as he looks around the room.  Only one bed.  Private quarters.  Washington reaches forward and rests a hand on Grif’s shoulder and Grif hopes to god it was just as awkward for Wash to do as it was for him to experience.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Grif says but again, the words, and they come out like, “Dun haffa ice,” and he just closes his eyes and lays his head back with a sigh.

“You’re on some pretty heavy painkillers.”

“No shit.”  Oh so _that_ comes out fine.  Thanks for nothing, mouth.

“Your team is all right.”

Grif’s brain feels like sponge cake.  He doesn’t know what that means to anyone without a morphine drip but to him it means it takes a while for that to really sink to the bottom of the murky lake that is his current state of mind.  He’s tired.  He wants to go back to sleep.  His stupid Red teammates are okay.  They’d flipped a table and shoved it against the door, Tucker standing in front with that stupid suit and like nineteen cool toys to play with when all he has is the Grif Shot with maybe four extra ammo thingies.  What were they called?  Grenades?  But not the throwing kind of grenades.

A shield had gone up at some point and bullets had pinged off it; somebody got hurt, bad, because there was that green glow of a Freelancer healing unit.  Simmons had gotten shot in his cyborg arm and it had mostly made him really angry because it hadn’t hurt, which was weird to see because Simmons usually gets complainy instead of angry.  Simmons angry is passive-aggressive and really annoying to deal with, but maybe just with people he doesn’t want to shoot because Simmons angry had meant he’d grabbed that alien ball thing Caboose had put Church into a lifetime ago, pulled some wires out and rigged this badass death laser that melted like four mercs before it shorted out and burned Simmons’ hand. 

And then Grif had gotten shot a whole bunch, he remembers that.  Something happened to Donut but Lopez was there so he thinks he was fine.  Sarge had been yelling even when Grif fell over- oh fuck, he thinks he was the one that got hurt bad and needed the healing unit, right, that’s right.  And Simmons had dragged him behind one of those trophy pedestals and propped him up there, had covered his head when the fighting got into the room and Caboose had yelled something about Church, and the whole room shook because he’s pretty sure the stupid blue ox just tore a hole through the wall, and where the fuck was Tucker?  Tucker was somewhere, probably somewhere stealing all the limelight but that’s fine with Grif, fine by him, he’s fucking bleeding over here and going out like a bitch which really sucks, because for all of Sarge’s bullshit he’d have liked to have gone out in an explosion too.  Something cool at least, something that leaves an impression.  Hopefully someone will tell Bitters what a badass he was in the end, what a complete maverick, how fucking cool.  Donut shouldn’t do it.  Donut would tell the truth, about all the crying Grif and Simmons did and that would be embarrassing.

“Simmons?” Grif asks, voice croaking.  Did he have a breathing tube before?  It feels like someone scraped his throat out with a soup spoon.

Washington lowers the datapad.  When did he get that?  Did Grif pass out again?  “Not here. He’s hurt; pretty much everyone sustained injuries.  Simmons, Donut and Sarge are in general recovery, resting.  You’re in the ICU.”

“That sucks,” Grif says.  Yeah, he must’ve passed out.  Talking is easier.  He thinks about asking Wash why he’s here.  He decides he doesn’t care enough.  “Am I dying?”

“You were.”  Leave it to Washington to give it to him straight, at least.  “But Dr. Grey thinks you’re out of danger now.  Should be fine, if there aren’t any more complications.”

“Your bedside manner needs work,” Grif tells him and swallows.  Tries to.  Wash puts the datapad on his bed and reaches for a canteen, standing to help Grif drink.  Again, incredibly awkward.

“Tucker’s in a coma.”

Grif’s eyes open.  He doesn’t remember closing them.  “Why?”

Wash is bent over his knees like some tired old man.  Grif remembers back home.  When he was younger, some of the palm trees outside had picked up some kind of disease or they weren’t getting enough minerals or something and the trunks had started bending over, like they were too weak to stand.  That’s Wash.  Blond dead palm tree.  “Epsilon fractured himself, so the pieces could run the equipment in the suit.  He’s…gone.  It did something to Tucker’s head, he’s not waking up.”

Great. So Church is going to need them to go on some stupid adventure to save him, _again._   Caboose is probably fucking miserable, _again,_ and they’re all going to have to deal with that.  _Again._   Blue Team problems.  Couldn’t even let Grif almost die without drama of their own.

“So why’re you in here?”  Grif makes sure his face is as accusatory as he can manage while drowning in pain meds and losing time in the middle of a conversation.  Either he succeeded or Washington was already asking himself that question, because he stands back up.  “Get out of here, Blue.”

“Grif…”  Wash trails off, looking pained.  Probably because of all the emotions he’s likely incapable of processing.

“No.  Do not.  I’m too high.  Just get out.”

Wash leaves.

Grif goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Donut visits him before Simmons, which Grif finds incredibly offensive.

“Oh come on,” Donut says airily, like they didn’t all almost just die…however long ago it was.  “Would _you_ go visit _him_ if he was in the ICU?”

“Yes!  That’s what people do, Donut!”

“Well.”  Donut gets back to whatever the fuck he’s doing, some kind of…knitting or crocheting or who even knows.  “That’s not what Simmons is doing.  And don’t you give him a hard time when he finally shows up!  I think he’s working up the nerve.”

“That is so stupid,” Grif mutters, turning away.  He’s awake for longer periods of time now, a few hours at a time and he’s terrified to say it aloud but he’s starting to get _bored_ of being asleep.  Horrible.  Not only did he almost die, but now he has to suffer through one of the greatest loves of his life being turned into something he hates.

Donut makes him a scarf while he’s there.  Grif hates it too.

 

* * *

 

Matthews shows up and tries to give Grif flowers.  Grif yells at him until he leaves, ends up popping some stitch somewhere and Dr. Grey scolds him while she stitches him back up and doesn’t even apologize for making it kinda hurt a little.

 

* * *

 

Grif doesn’t know what day it is, how long he’s been in the hospital and he’s afraid to ask.  Sarge comes by long enough to tell him to stop lazing around, but it’s really uncomfortable for both of them because Sarge visiting is a sign of some element of caring and he leaves to the relief of them both.

Bitters comes by with the flowers Matthews tried to give him.  When Grif gives him a look of betrayal he just shrugs and puts them on the nighstand by his bed.  “Matthews wouldn’t shut up.”

Grif wishes he could be more put out that Bitters would look out for Matthews before him, but it’s such a classic lazy maverick move to pass the harassment onto someone else so you don’t have to deal with it that he can’t say anything.  The flowers sit on his nightstand until they wilt.  Donut replaces them every time he visits.

 

* * *

 

The first time Grif tries to eat something, he spends hours curled over a bucket with Donut rubbing his back.  He’s not ashamed to admit that he cried, mostly because he was crying from both the disappointment of having _another_ of his favorite things ruined (first sleep, now eating, what next? Masturbating?) and also from the pain of throwing up when his guts are still just barely stitched together. 

“It’s not really a surprise," Donut points out, retrieving a canteen so Grif can rinse his mouth out.  “I mean, when we got rescued your whole front looked like hamburger meat!”

“Don’t say hamburger unless I can have one,” Grif coughs, spitting puke-water into the bucket.  “Where the fuck is Simmons?”

“Sorry,” Donut says sympathetically.  He takes the bucket and isn’t even squeamish about it.  Grif decides to reevaluate how much he doesn’t like the guy when he’s feeling less miserable and exhausted.

 

* * *

 

Grif finds out he’s been in the hospital for almost a month and a half when Dr. Grey tells him he’s lost twenty-five pounds.  “You’d be in serious trouble without all those fat stores!” she chirps, like he’d overeaten all his life in preparation for a long hospital stay.  “It makes surgery a _teensy_ bit complicated, but I’m still glad.  Really, out of everyone on your team you’d be the safest person to be in a coma!  Pretty lucky you were the one with the worst injuries!”

“I’m not in a coma,” Grif protests.  “I’m awake sometimes.  _Tucker’s_ in a coma.”

“Oh no, Tucker’s been awake.”  Dr. Grey types something on her datapad.  Grif is getting tired of people reading and writing things around him when he’s trying to have a conversation.  “He woke up about a week ago.  He doesn’t remember much about what happened but he should be fine.”

Grif throws his hands up.  No- he hurts too much for that.  He lifts his hands feebly, but with no less feeling.  “Nobody tells me anything!  What the hell!”

 

* * *

 

Donut brings Grif an empty datapad when he asks for it so he can start taking notes.  Nobody tells him anything (they say it’s because he doesn’t ask anything, but he _never_ asks and that’s not a habit a man can break overnight or over the course of several weeks or whatever) so he starts marking down when he wakes up.

He finds out that he’s barely awake.  Which isn’t unusual, but only when he _intends_ to be just barely awake.  Sometimes he sleeps through an entire 24 hours before waking up, and then he goes right back to sleep just a few hours later.

“Are you sedating me?” Grif accuses Dr. Grey.

“Oh no!  We don’t have the supplies to waste for that.”  Dr. Grey somehow gets the IV needle into his other arm without him even feeling it.  Grif is begrudgingly impressed.  The last medic who came in to switch his IV over stabbed him like four times.  Apparently he has very deep veins.

“Why am I sleeping so much?  I mean, this is a lot even for _me._ ”

“Silly!”  Dr. Grey removes her gloves and stands up, smiling down at him.  “You almost died!  And I _don’t_ mean that figuratively, where someone _almost_ hits you with their car or you _almost_ fall off a cliff.  Your heart stopped!  It’s stopped a few times.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You were out for a good three weeks after you first woke up!  That was because you experienced acute pulmonary failure.  And then acute _respiratory_ failure!  Yup.  You’ve almost died quite a few times.  Clinically speaking, you _were_ dead a few times!”

Grif sinks into his pillows and stares at the far wall.

“Don’t worry.  I don’t think any of that’s going to be happening again.  Lucky, all your complications occurred while you were asleep.  Something like that would be _pr-etty traumatizing_ to experience while awake!”  Dr. Grey shook the water from her hands after washing.  “I’m also responsible for your mental health, Captain Grif, so you tell me if you need to talk to someone.”

“Where’s Simmons?” Grif asks weakly.

Dr. Grey’s expression gentles, which is really weird to see.  “I’ll get a message to him to come see you.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose comes to Grif’s room and Grif asks him where his current handler is.

“Church is dead again,” Caboose tells him dully and sits down on the floor.  He’s not even in his armor, which is freakish to see but probably a lot safer for Grif.

“Why are you coming to tell me this?”  Grif has been in a sour mood ever since his talk with Dr. Grey.  Died many times.  _Many fuckin’ times_ and Simmons still hasn’t come to see him.  Prick.  So much for inseparable.  The last thing he wants to do is talk to a heartsick Caboose.

“I dunno.”  Caboose lays on the ground like he’s going to sleep.  Then he _does_ go to sleep.

“Oh my god,” says Grif before he lays back and goes to sleep also.

 

* * *

 

Simmons finally shows up and Grif almost throws him out, he’s so angry.  He hates being angry too; angry takes too much work, too much energy.  Being bitter is easier because that just means you can sleep through it.  Anger demands _action._

“Where the fuck have you been?” Grif demands when Simmons haunts the doorway like some pathetic cyborg ghost.  Simmons drifts inside and pulls up a chair and doesn’t even look Grif in the face.  Doesn’t even say anything.  Grif wants to break his datapad over Simmons’ head.  “Okay.  Fine.  Get out.”

Simmons finally says something, sighing and leaning back.  “Grif-”

“If this is an excuse I don’t wanna hear it.”

Simmons sighs again, 40% exasperation increase.  “Would you just hear me out?”

Grif stares at him.

“I was here.”  Simmons swallows.  “When your heart gave out.”

“Which time?”

Simmons flinches.

“Get out, Simmons.”  Grif doesn’t know what he’s doing.  He’s tired.  He’s angry.  He wants to fucking eat and keep it down, he wants to put his weight back on.  He wants to be out of bed for longer than five minutes without feeling like falling over.  He wanted Simmons to be here since he woke up, but now that he’s here and acting like _he’s_ the one who almost died, Grif just wants him to leave.

Simmons leaves and Grif can’t get back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Three months after the day they stormed Hargrove’s ship, Grif gets released from the hospital.  Dr. Grey wanted to keep him in recovery but admitted that he would probably recover more quickly if he was somewhere more familiar.  Kimball makes it very clear; barracks, mess hall.  No training (ha, like she needed to say it), no armor, no weapons, _no driving anything._   Wheelchair at all times, which is a bitch to deal with because apparently the UNSC arriving with supplies a month ago means jack shit in terms of getting a powered wheelchair so that means Grif has to deal with physically wheeling this analog shit everywhere.  It’s exhausting.  His chest hurts so bad and he’s forty pounds lighter.  He bangs the wheelchair into a corner until Dr. Grey releases a medic from duty to wheel him to the barracks.  He’s so sick and tired of sleeping but that’s all he wants to do.  Or maybe just lay in bed for yet another month.

The medic –Jones or Joannes or Godfrey or something- wheels Grif out of the hospital and along some kind of main courtyard and everybody turns to look at him and starts cheering.  Actual applause, yelling and whistles and Grif doesn’t really know what to do with it.  Maybe if he didn’t feel like shit; he likes the attention, really.  He likes being lauded for a hero because he is, he totally is, he took a bajillion bullets for these people but he’s so, so tired and he hasn’t eaten real, actual food since he’s woken up.

Jenkins salutes him on his way past her.  “Really good to see you doing better, sir.”

Andersmith stands at attention, like he’s the General.

Palomo trips over himself to walk alongside Grif’s wheelchair.  “Everybody’s talking about it!  They’re saying you guys can’t be killed!  I mean, well, obviously it can sort of happen, what with the little glowing guy being gone, but is that the same?  I heard he got deleted.  Bad USB drive?  But all the rest of you made it out, and that was _incredible,_ seriously!  Really cool.  Hey, can I push your wheelchair?”

“Go away Palomo,” Grif says tiredly.

“You got it, sir!”

Grif is left in the relative silence of the barracks.  The medic asks if he wants help getting into his bed, but Grif just tells him to go.  He sits in his wheelchair, alone, looking out into the hallway and the open rooms across from him, all the beds that will be filled with people who’ll probably want to check in on him later, thank him, say stuff about crap when they don’t even know what happened.  He looks at his bed, where there’s about fifty thousand cards in colorful envelopes lying in a pile.

It takes some time, but Grif gets onto his feet and slaps the cards to the floor.  He hears a too-loud thump, stoops to pick up a package, sits down with it when the blood rushes to his head and unwraps the shitty delivery paper.

A package of Moonpies.  ‘ _You’ll need these.  –S’_ written in sharpie.

Grif eats all of them.  He throws them up, but it was worth it.

 

* * *

 

When Donut finds Grif smoking on the roof of the barracks he gasps like he just saw Grif slap a nun.  “ _Dexter Grif!_   Are you _smoking?_ ”

“Yeah, I do that, Donut,” Grif drawls.  He leans more heavily against the railing and blows smoke in Donut’s direction.

Donut flaps a hand through the cloud, his other fist on his hip.  “You shouldn’t do that!  You just-“

“Donut?  I just spent the last three months trying my best not to die.  I’m gonna smoke.”

Donut doesn’t say anything.  He joins Grif at the railing a few moments later.  “Are you still not talking to Simmons?”

“How’s that your business,” Grif grunts.

“It’s Red Team business!  Sarge won’t say it, but I’m sure he’s worried too.”

Grif rolls his eyes, stubbing out the cigarette against the railing and flicking the butt over the edge.  “I’m sure he’s very concerned about us.”

“He is!”  Donut turns around and rests his elbows atop the railing.  “Grif, we’re all _very_ concerned about you.  You haven’t gone to any of your sessions with Dr. Grey!”

“I’m not going to therapy.”

“You should!”

“I’m not.”

Donut pushes off the railing and stomps his foot.  “Okay, mister.  You don’t leave me a whole lot of choice!”  He touches the side of his helmet.

“What are you doing?”  Grif straightens up and makes a swipe for Donut that he easily sidesteps.  “You better not be calling Simmons, Donut.  I swear to god-”

“Grif, shush,” Donut hisses.  “I am on the phone.  _Rude._   Hi, General?  I’m here with Grif.  Do you want me to-  Yes?  Okey dokey!”  He lowers his hand and looks at Grif.

Grif says, “No.”

 

* * *

 

Kimball pins a medal onto his shirt like he hasn’t worn it for four days in a row.  Grif doesn’t want to be here.  He doesn’t want to see everyone else in their armor, he _especially_ doesn’t want to see Simmons in his armor, not looking at him.  He doesn’t want to see that stupid picture of Doyle hung up with the black ribbons around it.  He doesn’t want to see General Kimball reaching into a stupid box held by some stupid UNSC soldier for another medal to pin on his shirt that he hadn’t felt even remotely self-conscious about until just now.  He doesn’t want his stupid platoon to be hanging out near the back, probably filming this for later embarrassment purposes (with the exception of Matthews, who is audibly crying). 

At least there isn’t any press.  Apparently they’d already come and gone while he was in the hospital.

“For your service to the armies of Chorus,” Kimball continues, pinning the second medal, “and your gallantry in the face of overwhelming and seemingly insurmountable odds, Captain Grif, under the authority of the United Offices of Chorus and the UNSC, I award you the Distinguished Service Cross.”

“Why are you doing this to me,” Grif mutters under his breath.

“Shut up and try to look noble,” she mutters back.  She’s smiling.  She’s enjoying embarrassing him.  Evil.

Apparently everyone else got their medals in some grand ceremony earlier, which Grif is glad he missed.  He’s pretty pissed off that Donut dragged him to this one, though he has to admit that Donut was right when he said he _had_ to make it candid, because otherwise Grif would never have come.

Nobody takes any pictures, thank god.  Sarge at least waits until the ceremony is over to complain loudly about what an embarrassment Grif is to the glorious Red Army, getting so hurt (because of his ineptitude, obviously) and then expecting a medal for it.  Wash points out that they all got medals for injury and that draws Sarge into some kind of tirade about _degrees_ _of nobleness_ when it comes to battlefield wounds that Grif tunes out because his entire torso feels like a bruised peach and he needs to sit down right now, right away-

Someone grabs his arm and helps him into a chair.  Simmons.  Grif is too tired to still be angry.

“I puked up those Moonpies,” he tells Simmons.

“I can find you more,” Simmons tells him back.

“Simmons,” Grif murmurs, still hanging onto his arm.  He pulls and Simmons sinks into a crouch in front of the chair and maybe, maybe if Grif weren’t so tired, maybe if it was four months ago, maybe if he didn’t remember Simmons crouched over him on the ship, jumping from the gunshots and shaking but keeping Grif’s head tucked down under his chin - Maybe if he didn’t remember that then Grif wouldn’t be ignoring everything else in favor of this intimacy because he finally, finally feels like he’s got his feet on land after treading water for way too long.  “I almost died.”

“Yeah.”  Simmons doesn’t sound as choked as he did when he came to Grif’s room before.  Maybe _he’s_ been going to his mandatory therapy sessions with Dr. Grey.  “Yeah, you did.  A few times.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, Grif.”  Simmons rests a hand on Grif’s knee, the pale freckled one that he gave him twelve years ago, and squeezes.  “ 'Holy shit' sounds about right.”


	2. Carolina

 

“Where’s Caboose?”

Carolina and Washington exchange glances.

“Oh god,” says Wash. He jumps to his feet. “I need to- I have to go find him. I’ll be right back.”

Carolina watches him leave. He won’t be back, not today. She understands; just watching Tucker like this is making her skull throb, making the multilayered screams of her mother’s name echo faintly in her ears. It was worse for Wash. They threw him into a padded cell and Carolina-

Well, she had been in no place to investigate why.

Tucker mutters and curls onto his side, his back to her. He isn’t terribly injured; a gunshot wound to his calf, some scrapes and bruises but that’s not what’s keeping him in the ICU. Wash can’t watch because he’s reminded of too much. She can see it in the way his face goes hard and pale every time Tucker twitches and hisses something that doesn’t sound like _him,_ doesn’t sound right. Even when his eyes are open he’s not really here.

“Wouldn’t it be kinder to sedate him?” Carolina asks Dr. Grey flatly, for about the fourth time.

Dr. Grey, for all her patience, is developing that sugar-sweet tone to her voice that means she’s considering sedating someone other than Tucker. “I don’t know what’s going on in his head right now, unfortunately. Sedating him _might_ seem nicer, but it definitely won’t help with a diagnosis! Or a prognosis, for that matter!”

Tucker flinches, curls tighter, arms over his head protectively.

“If you find this too difficult to watch, I can have someone else keep an eye on him.” Dr. Grey flips through some brain scans on the screen beside Tucker’s bed, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“No.” Carolina gets up and circles around to stand beside the doctor. “I can handle it.”

“I thought you might.”

Carolina doesn’t like that amused tone to her voice and jerks her chin at the scans. “You keep looking at them. Is there something there?” She hesitates. She doesn’t want the answer, but _information never displeases me_ rings in her head and she has to begrudgingly admit the pragmatism of the statement, however arrogant it was at the time. “Brain damage?”

“Mm. I don’t think so.” Dr. Grey points to a bright neon section. “But _this_ shows an unusual amount of activity! By all means Tucker _should_ be awake, but he isn’t. He’s moving around so much that I don’t want to call it a coma, but.” She reaches down and pinches Tucker’s arm. He doesn’t react. “See? No reaction to painful stimuli, and we can’t wake him up. That’s a coma!”

Carolina stares, feeling off kilter. They’d found him in Maine’s suit; Tucker’s color but Maine’s helmet, his armor type and basically every piece of advanced Freelancer tech ever created strapped to it. Trying to get an answer out of Caboose regarding what happened had been impossible. Lopez was damaged and nobody could understand him anyway, Doc had been stuck in O’Malley mode and refused to cooperate, instead skulking about belligerently and stealing all the apples from the mess hall for…some reason. Thank goodness that most of the Reds were awake and coherent, finally. Simmons had been able to give her an accurate report on what exactly had happened in that room.

Epsilon-

Church had…left a message for everyone. She and Wash watched it together to make sure there wasn’t any vital information that needed to be acted upon immediately. It was- It had been hard, too hard. And that wasn’t even including the message he’d left specifically for her. She’d only managed to listen to the first few seconds so far.

_Hey, sis. Sorry for-_

“Agent Carolina?”

Carolina jerks back from Dr. Grey. “Sorry. Lost in my head.”

The doctor gestures toward the brain scans. “Want some of these? Always good to have a brain scan on file! And from the stories I heard about Project Freelancer, you might want to get a sure idea of what you’re dealing with anyway.”

Carolina tries not to take offense to that. She almost succeeds, which she imagines is her signature move by now. Just barely falling just short of the goal. Relying on someone else to grab her hand and drag her the rest of the way. “No. Thank you, Doctor. I’m fine.”

Dr. Grey hums. “Really, Tucker is _incredibly_ lucky that he didn’t have Church plugged directly into his head. Not the right hardware! These scans don’t look as bad as what Agent Washington’s sustained over his lifetime.”

Carolina feels her stomach swoop. “Wash has brain damage?”

“Oh yes.” Dr. Grey holds up a hand. “More like chemical scarring, but I can’t make a whole lot of sense of it aside from the physical signs, of course. All this modern medicine and brains are still something of a mystery! Ethics get in the way of any actual testing and experimentation on live subjects.”

“That’s a _good_ thing, Doctor.”

“Of course it is! But it also does make learning more about them a trial.” Dr. Grey flips through Tucker’s charts to another scan. “Don’t worry, Agent Carolina. See that? You can tell the damage isn’t severe.”

Carolina can’t tell a damn thing, no matter how convincingly Dr. Grey points.

“Agent Washington isn’t in any danger either, so don’t worry. I mean, he could do with a _whole lot_ of therapy, but that’s about standard for practically everyone these days. The difference between them and him is that his is probably covered under the UNSC’s insurance plan! –oops, one moment please!” Dr. Grey tilts her head to the side, going still. “Oh dear. I have to go! If you need a break, just grab a medic and they’ll find someone to replace you!”

Dr. Grey is out the door before Carolina can ask what happened, which is pretty damn impressive. She follows the sound of stampeding feet to the doorway and leans out to see a rush of medical personnel pushing into a room down the hall. “What’s going on?” she asks a passerby.

“That’s Captain Grif’s room,” the soldier tells her worriedly.

Carolina grip on the doorjamb tightens and she gives the soldier a sharp nod. She returns to Tucker’s bedside, pulls up a chair and sits down to wait. Tucker’s brain scans hover over the room like a motivational poster. _Not as bad as Agent Washington._ Carolina doesn’t like any of what that implies.

 

* * *

 

Wash comes back to the room looking ten years older. Night has long since fallen and Carolina had been listening to Tucker get quieter and quieter until, finally, it seemed like he was asleep. Actual sleep, but she supposes sleeping and a normal coma don’t look all that different on the outside.

“How’s he doing?” Wash asks, lowering himself into a chair beside Carolina.

“He’s gotten quiet. Dr. Grey had to leave.” Carolina hesitates- no. They’re partners now. He doesn’t need to be protected anymore, even if he looks like he does. “I think Grif may have crashed again.”

“Jesus.” Wash lowers his head into his hands, fingers slipping into his hair before he straightens. “Any news on that?”

“He’s not dead, anyway.” Dr. Grey would have sent someone to inform her if he was. She hopes.

Wash nods. He watches Tucker and Carolina can practically see his face aging in the wan light of Tucker’s medical charts glowing nearby.

“Wash. Dr. Grey mentioned something about brain damage.”

Wash looks up at her and at the expression on his face Carolina changes her mind immediately. Negative. He still needs to be protected. Protected at all costs.

“Not for Tucker.” Just a bit of a lie. “She said _you_ had brain damage.”

“Oh.” Wash sighs in relief and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, I knew about that already. It’s old. It’s not-” He gestures at his temple, a strange circular motion with his fingers. “I’ve got it handled, more or less. Coping mechanisms. It’s the paranoia.”

“I see.”

“I knew about that when they cleared me for active duty.”

Carolina nods.

Wash drums his fingers against his knee. “Dr. Grey examined me when Locus brought us to the Feds. Took some scans then, had to work around the wetware.” He reaches back to touch the ports at the base of his neck and goes quiet, thoughtful.

While Carolina knew that Wash and Church didn’t have the best relationship now, after everything, she’d thought they were at least on speaking terms. Epsilon had left a message for Wash too. Carolina wonders if Wash watched it already.

“Boss.”

She looks up.

“If you…need to talk.” Wash sounds pained and sincere; not ‘painfully sincere,’ but that it was causing him pain to be this sincere. She understands. None of them are good with emotional things; North had been good, York had been good. The two of them had acted as agony aunts for just about everyone in Freelancer, but that was it. Agents were encouraged to speak to the Counselor and nobody else.

Or maybe they were specifically chosen because they were allergic to sharing their feelings. Made it easier to control information and people when they never talked to each other.

“Thanks,” she answers, just as stilted. She knows what the offer is for, and she appreciates the gesture from Wash even considering his history with Epsilon. “I’ll think about it.” If she does decide to say anything, it won’t be to Wash. She can’t do that to him. With him.

“I’m going to go check on the Reds,” Wash announces as he stands.

“You don’t have to sit in here if it’s too hard,” Carolina calls after his back.

He pauses at the door. “No, I do.” He glances at her over his shoulder. His eyes drift to Tucker.

Washington leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Carolina finds out later from Donut that Grif, for certain, is not dead. Not great, but not dead. Most of the Reds are out and about, wandering around and making nuisances of themselves. Sarge is already barking orders at soldiers not in his squad and rearranging the armory. Very pointedly making himself busy.

Best to leave him be. He’s an old soldier.

Donut is chipper as ever, but Carolina doesn’t know if he’s hurting and she can’t tell because she just doesn’t know him well enough yet. Sarge keeps hovering and Donut keeps laughing it off and bouncing around the armory, chatting (pointlessly) with an increasingly exasperated Lopez and striking up conversations with the multitude of Chorus soldiers who poke their heads in to get a look at their heroes in the flesh. Donut’s knee is in a soft brace. He’s still out of his armor.  Sarge, meanwhile, had put his on the second he left Recovery. Carolina’s pretty sure Dr. Grey did _not_ approve that.

Simmons is nowhere to be found and Wash reports back that he hasn’t been with Grif. Carolina finally finds him in the barracks with about four different computer terminals, typing furiously. When she asks him what he’s doing he screams, accidentally breaks a keyboard and furiously begins tidying his already tidy quarters, babbling something about improving internal security and firewalls. What Carolina gathers from that is that Simmons, too, is keeping himself occupied.

She’s on the prowl for Caboose when she realizes that she’s repeating patterns of the past. Checking in on her team. It was something she did with much more frequency before the leaderboard, before the fragments, when team cohesion was more important than individual scoring, but nonetheless it’s a habit resurfacing after so much time dormant.

She finds him outside in one of the gardens. Though the city they’re currently occupying is damaged, it was once beautiful and lush and the gardens remained more or less untouched during the battles.  It's peaceful there, a nice place to talk or calm one's tumultuous mind.

But Carolina absolutely does not want to talk to Caboose. She’s not prepared to talk to someone about Church and that’s who he’ll want to discuss. He’ll be honest about how much it hurts and she can’t listen to it, because it means she might have to consider what Church’s fragmentation means to _her._ Caboose will call it a death. She can’t.

“Agent Carolina?”

Carolina jumps and her hand flies to a weapon that isn’t there. She curses under her breath. Wash was right; it’s like he waits for you to get lost in your head. “Yes. I’m here. Hi, Caboose.”

“Hello.” Caboose turns back to the stone bench he’s currently occupying and scrapes a nail over it. “Thank you for visiting me.”

It feels cruel to keep her distance like this but Carolina wants a quick exit available. Wash is so much better with Caboose, but he’s been sitting with Tucker ever since Grif woke up and apparently kicked him out. “Sure.”

Caboose doesn’t keep the conversation afloat, which is odd. From what she’s observed of him, he can talk about nearly anything; it might not make much sense, but he can. He and Donut have that in common. Maybe she should get Donut out here to distract him.

“I miss Church.”

Shit. There it is. “I know.”

“He keeps dying.” Caboose bows his head. Carolina can’t see his face but she can hear the tears in his voice and her feet itch to carry her away, anywhere far away from here. “I wish he would stop. It makes me very sad every time it happens.”

Ohhhh god she’s not equipped to handle this. She can punch things. She can negotiate (sometimes violently). She can’t do this. She can’t comfort a gigantic manchild because his best friend broke himself into tiny shards to save their lives. She can’t think about what that means; she can’t contemplate what her partner had been thinking when he made the decision. She can’t replay that message over and over in her head, obsess over it and wonder if there was anything she could have done to stop it from happening. Maybe if they’d tried to follow before Epsilon had called for evac, maybe if they’d just worked on the assumption that the Reds and Blues would be successful and followed them immediately, _somehow-_ But Epsilon’s problems didn’t begin on the ship. He’d been having trouble for weeks.

She’d known something was wrong. It was probably only a matter of time, but-

Oh no. He’s crying.  This is bad.

Her feet, instead of carrying her away from here as fast as they can, bring her over to stand beside Caboose. He immediately leans against her side. It can’t be comfortable; she’s worn her armor every day without fail, and Caboose still hasn’t gotten permission to wear his again. He winds the arm not in a sling around her waist and grips the armor at her hip and she resists the urge to twist and flip him. How long has it been since she’s allowed this kind of closeness? She can’t even remember. Did Wash go through these kneejerk responses too?

“Church is my best friend,” Caboose hiccups. He cries so freely, like it’s not something to be ashamed of. Carolina is embarrassed. And jealous. “But he was with you a lot. You must be very sad too.”

Her throat closes up before she can confirm or deny it.

Caboose doesn’t say anything further, just clings to her armor as long as she lets him. It takes ages, practically forever, but eventually he runs out of tears and lets her go.

 

* * *

 

 

The UNSC arrives about five weeks after the assault on Hargrove’s ship and Carolina is tempted to dropkick them right back into space with how smug and self-congratulatory they are. They make a huge show of delivering supplies and deploying troops to “ensure public security” and immediately begin to occupy bases and supersede Chorus’ shaky command infrastructure with their own. They _do_ manage to do some good. The supplies were desperately needed, and while the armies of Chorus are resentful for having to report to yet _another_ unknown figure, the ship’s captain and CO is more than willing to accommodate General Kimball.

Carolina still wants to punch them. Wash tells her she’s not the only one. They both stand back and watch delightedly as Sarge to blows his stack at one uppity platoon that tries to take control of the armory and motor pool from the Reds. Kimball negotiates. The UNSC backs off.

Tucker wakes up in the midst of all the hubbub, bewildered when Caboose throws himself at him sobbing. He remembers almost nothing from the ship; sometimes he twitches, looks around the room like he can hear something no one else can, but even that behavior disappears after a few days.

They bring him up to speed.

Tucker wilts. He watches the message Church left almost obsessively, watches the message Church left specifically for _him_ in private and when he’s discharged from the hospital a week later, he starts running laps almost immediately without Wash saying a word.

Carolina joins him sometimes, in the morning. They make it routine after a while; meet outside the tracks, pull up their hair together and just run. She gets used to the way loss looks on his face and it’s awful, but it’s steady ground. The way he deals with it is familiar and easier to handle than Caboose’s crying and depression. She does approach Donut about sticking to Caboose and he agrees, taking a break from the armory to split his time between Grif’s room and shadowing Caboose, who at the very least appreciates the company.

The UNSC insists on an awards ceremony. The Reds want to wait for Grif to be present, but time is short; once the investigation into Hargrove’s ship is concluded, the ship will need to leave to report in. Simmons interjects quietly that he’s pretty sure Grif wouldn’t want to do something like this anyway. Carolina agrees. She remembers just trying to get him to stand for the photo had been an exercise in frustration; he’d almost edged out of it. Grif’s medals are given to Kimball for later.

The ceremony is uncomfortable and brief. Some pre-approved photographers attend and snap photos as each of the simulation troopers, Carolina and Washington are awarded. Kimball is decorated by the ship’s captain, as well as General Doyle, posthumously. Things get worse when Caboose asks why Church didn’t get a medal since he died too, and then Donut wants to know why Lopez wasn’t also awarded and the UNSC wraps things up quickly, leaving Kimball with the uncomfortable task of explaining that despite the laws in place to protect artificial constructs, the concept of actual personhood among AI (and robots, by extension) hadn’t made it very far.

Caboose was not happy. He took off his medals and refused to wear them. Wash found him burying them in the garden later that day before erecting twig replicas of a cross, a star of David and the McDonald’s logo.

The UNSC bustles off in a hurry; several platoons of soldiers remain stationed on Chorus, “for support,” but Carolina knows the truth and talks to Wash about it later.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s twice we’ve made them look like idiots,” she mutters, panting through a set of pull-ups as Wash struggles through his one-handed pushups beside her. “One more time and we’ll be painting targets on their backs.”

Working out together serves the dual purpose of having a spotting partner and also being able to talk about things without having to look at one another. Makes it easier to clear the air. Getting used to being in close quarters with other people again has been something of an adventure for Carolina, but she likes to think she’s doing much better.

“We’ll keep our heads down,” he agrees. He pushes himself up and sits back on his feet, panting and flexing his fingers. “Shouldn’t be too hard. When’s Grif getting out of the ICU?”

“A week or so.” The answer comes immediately because she is, damn it, she _is_ keeping track of them and Wash knows it. She’s keeping track of her team. “Dr. Grey thought about keeping him in Recovery for longer, but figured he’d had enough of the hospital. She’s hoping some stability and routine that doesn’t involve checkups and needles will help him reacclimatize.”

“Right.” Washington heads over to the punching bag and rummages in a supply cabinet for tape. “Tucker’s already asking for assignments.”

Carolina makes a noise of disapproval. “Talk to him about it.”

“That…might not work out well.” Washington studiously wraps up the knuckles of one hand. “We tend to argue. About everything.”

“You’ll figure something out.” Carolina passes by him for her water bottle, clapping him on the back hard enough that he stumbles. She mops her face and slings her towel over her shoulders, heading for the door.

“Boss?”

She turns. Washington fidgets, pushing the tape down the dips of his fingers. “…Wash, spit it out.”

He hesitates a second longer (possibly just to try her patience) before shaking his head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Well, now she’s gonna.

 

* * *

 

 

As promised, they have a small ceremony later just for Grif and it’s much more comfortable. For them. He still hates it and complains and he looks oddly small, the only one out of his armor, but then Sarge starts a heated discussion with Washington (Carolina suspects it’s to take the spotlight off of Grif) and Grif disappears. Simmons disappears with him however, so no one is too worried. Donut sighs out, “ _Finally_ ,” and Carolina can’t help but agree.

Simmons without Grif (or Grif without Simmons) had been pretty awful to witness.

 

* * *

 

 

Tucker finds her later and asks if there’s anything he can do.

“Are you going over Wash’s head?” Carolina asks, and she’s surprised to find herself amused. It was like Mom saying no, so the kid goes to find Dad.

The way Tucker fusses and flaps his arms kind of cements the image and she’s glad she has her helmet on, because she’s grinning. Or maybe she shouldn’t be glad for that. Why can’t she smile around them? Epsilon-

…Church had told her that she needed to loosen up. Maybe this is how she can start. So she lets herself laugh, and it’s a little weird and Tucker kind of leans back, but when she follows it up with the Mom-Dad comment Tucker lets out this incredibly explosive sigh that just makes her laugh again, only with less strain.

This could work.

 

* * *

 

 

She finds Tucker and Wash making out in the gym and about-faces. No amount of loosening up will make that okay.

When Tucker makes a nasty joke the following morning about being a motherfucker and whether or not Carolina is filing for divorce, she punches his arm hard enough to make him yell. It’s worth it because the Reds laugh at him and Wash turns cherry red. Hell, it’d be worth it without any of that.

But it’s the first time Grif’s cracked a smile since getting out of the hospital, even if his laugh is more a wheeze and he has to grab at his chest. Tucker starts loudly proclaiming that Grif has _nothing_ to laugh about, Simmons rolls his eyes and complains about how they’d never heard _that_ before, try to get some new material Tucker. Donut starts talking loudly about getting out all his wedding planners and coordinating dates while Sarge huffs about fraternization and how he expected better from his fellow Team Leader, but how could he expect better from no good dirty rotten Blue like Washington? And Wash has his face in his hands, ears still red but Carolina knows the set of his shoulders and it’s good. It’s great, even.

Church died for these people.

He died with nothing to go on but faith, and they rewarded him for it by surviving.

Carolina decides it’s time.

 

* * *

 

 

Carolina finds Caboose in the garden, in front of his twig monument and buried medals. She’s worried her sweating palms will short out the message she has in her grip, so her pace over to Caboose is clipped and sits down next to him, cross-legged and rigid.  “Hey Caboose. Good morning.”

“Morning, Agent Carolina,” Caboose murmurs, glancing over at her. “I was just talking to Church.”

“Mm.” She leans her elbows on her knees and looks over at him. “Do you remember the message Church gave you?”

Caboose nods, looking back down at the tiny grave. “Yeah. I watch it a lot. Before I go to bed, too.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It makes me upset sometimes.” Everything about him his muted nowadays. Carolina hasn’t heard him yell since the fight at the communications temple. She and Wash had worried that Caboose wouldn’t understand that Church was really gone. The recordings look just like him and Caboose, well. He’s so easily confused. They’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to grasp that it wasn’t really _Church_ in the recordings, but Wash had taken a long time to explain it to him and somehow, the message had gotten through.

Carolina kind of wishes it hadn’t though.

She nudges him and holds out the holoprojector. “I have a message from Church for me but I don’t think I can watch it alone. Would you watch it with me?”

Caboose nods immediately and scoots closer to her so their knees are touching. Carolina takes a deep breath. Swipes a finger across the input screen; Church’s little powder blue avatar pops up and Caboose jumps, starts like he’s excited before he wilts again. Carolina pats his leg before she realizes what she’s doing.

_Hey, sis._

“Hi Church,” Caboose whispers.

Carolina echoes his greeting with her own. “Hey, Church.”

Caboose’s big shoulders come up and he rests his head down against hers and this time, she only tenses up for a little while.

She’ll manage.

They’ll all manage.


End file.
